


you've got pretty eyes but i know you're wrong.

by bratwiththeglasses, ohyellowbird



Series: maybe you're dreaming [2]
Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Outtakes, Recreational Drug Use, band au, mentions of past timothee chalamet/armie hammer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 14:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20211274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratwiththeglasses/pseuds/bratwiththeglasses, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyellowbird/pseuds/ohyellowbird
Summary: Maybe You're Dreaming OUTTAKE: if you were ever curious about what was happening on the other side of the hotel room wall.





	you've got pretty eyes but i know you're wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> this is an outtake from [chapter 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18679174/chapters/45597847) of maybe you're dreaming you're in love with me.
> 
> to anyone reading this, we wanted to say that we are so thankful for you. there are times when fandom can feel draining, but you are all overwhelmingly lovely. we feel very loved and appreciated and, frankly, undeserving of your sweetness.
> 
> <3 <3
> 
> \- oyb & cpx

Timmy rolls the chalky round pill between the pads of his fingers, glancing in the mirror over his shoulder towards the bathroom door. It’s cracked open slightly and he can hear Matty laughing, probably at some ridiculous new rumor he’s discovered online, or maybe he’s watching Fox News again. Timmy smiles privately as he recalls Matty putting on a terrible American accent to mock Trump, waving his hands around and explaining that a hurricane is, “tremendously big and tremendously wet.” 

Refocusing in the mirror, Timmy catches a glimpse of himself. He hasn’t washed his hair in a few days, leaving his usually buoyant curls looking half-dead as they rest limply against his forehead and cheekbones. He’s wearing his grey Rowing Blazers shirt and a pair of sweatpants that he’s not entirely sure belong to him. 

Touring with a bunch of guys that own too many clothes has been a strange, hectic journey so far, but it hasn’t taken long to realize that he loves it. Despite the stink and the exhaustion and the endless hours on the road, he loves it.

Something clanks outside then and without permission, Timmy’s brain instantly conjures Armie. Even when his attention is elsewhere, he is subconsciously being pulled towards him. He’s given up on excising the tether that keeps Armie front of mind, but if he dwells on it right now, he’s going to cry. Things are just so fucked up between them, Armie here but out of reach.

They shared a moment tonight outside of the venue, but it was over so fast and even if some progress could have been made, it wasn’t. A line has been drawn in the sand. He doesn’t know who to blame for it but it’s got him and Matty on one side and Armie on the other. 

Before Timmy can manifest a clear image of Armie’s achingly beautiful face, he bends forward to suck the little pill back and flush it down his throat with water from the sink faucet. 

He takes a few minutes, uses the bathroom, washes his hands, rotates his shoulders and stretches, willing himself into a better mood. Matty calls him back into the room and Timmy sighs sleepily when he flops down into bed next to him. 

“Fancy a swim?” Matty asks, a hand reaching out to gently tug at the greasy roots of Timmy’s hair. He waggles his eyebrows seductively then chuckles at himself. It makes Timmy chuckle too. 

“What? It’s fucking freezing outside.” 

“Hot tub, then.” Timmy groans and Matty laughs with adoration, bubbly after the show. “You’re quite lazy. What do you want to do then?” 

Timmy shrugs and rolls over, resting his cheek against the top of Matty’s thigh. Matty continues to pet his hair. It feels nice, tactile and grounding. He cards his long fingers back, nails scratching over and over his scalp, though eventually his hand starts to travel. Down his bicep, tickling against the dip at the side of his neck where the collar of his shirt has been overstretched from frequent wear and not enough washes. 

Timmy sighs and buries his face in Matty’s exposed skin, against his waist where his linen bottoms are hanging aggressively low. He inhales right where his tattoo reads _We Are Kings_ swirled against faded blue and red ink, licks over the tight skin there. 

“Wanna make each other come?” It's a casual, easy question. No underlying motives, just the human desire to experience one another again. 

Matty looked so cool on stage, sauntering around with the microphone in leather pants against LED backdrops. Watching him perform always leaves Timmy with the broken desire to put his mouth all over him, to attempt to elicit the same expressions Matty makes while singing the high notes. 

Matty’s fist sinks into his hair again, pulling for his attention. “What makes you think I’d knock about with you?” he snarks once Timmy is looking at him, his thumb slipping into the seam of Timmy’s lips to help his grin take over. Then Timmy is rearing back and rolling over, pinning Matty into white sheets and pillows. He feels the movement twice over, once in real time and once in slow motion.

The drugs are kicking in.

They kiss slowly, tongues melting together while they grind, Timmy’s cock slotting up against Matty’s easily with them both in flimsy loungewear.

He tastes like tea and nicotine, and something that Timmy has come to associate with respite; making out with Matty is a stress reliever. It carries him away until nearly an hour has passed and they’ve done little more than round second base. 

“You’re lush, T.” Matty draws his thumb down the bridge of his nose, over his lips. “I’ve never seen a human with a face like yours. D’you know what I mean?”

Timmy laughs through his nose, his eyelids heavy as Matty’s words digest. “Never seen a human with a face like mine…” Timmy starts to giggle. He nips at Mattys bottom lip while he laughs. “Maybe I’m not human.”

“You’re mad,” Matty smiles and they kiss again but the benzo Timmy took is in full force now and he can’t stop snickering because everything feels good and warm. Timmy feels like he’s in a timewarp, like he’s moving backwards and forwards through time simultaneously. He opens his mouth too wide and then laughs when Matty’s tongue swipes across his teeth. Matty pulls back and blinks before asking, “Are you high, or just weed-high?”

“Weed high,” Timmy supplies quickly, sitting back on his haunches to catch his breath. Even though Matty has never made him feel judged, he self-edits when it comes to talking about substances. He would never want to be the person to coax someone off the wagon and maybe, in some regard, he wishes he had Matty’s restraint. Fuck knows the trouble he’s gotten himself into when drugs were involved. 

The cocaine drip memory of Armie smarts. 

Since Timmy’s final year of college, drugs have become something of a coping mechanism for him and as of late they are slowly approaching vice status. He lies because he doesn’t want newly-sober Matty to worry. 

“Cool.” Matty believes him automatically, guiding Timmy’s hands up the center of his thighs, stopping only when his fingers brush against the tip of his hardened cock. 

Timmy licks his lips, hungry. “Do you think we have time? The guys might get back soon.”

“Then I reckon you ought to be very diligent, Timothée.” Matty grins, spreading his legs open wider, his cock pressing into Timmy’s palm through the linen. During this tour he’s had it rutting against his hip and sliding down the back of his throat. Now, he strokes it teasingly and when Matty’s shallow, warm moans flutter out, Timmy falls against his mouth to catch them in a kiss. 

“Can I put my dick inside of you?” They don’t usually fuck like this, but when they have, it’s with Matty splayed out on his back, knees over his shoulders while Timmy writhes above him. Matty is only the third person Timmy has topped; when he was younger he simply wanted to try everything but with Matty this was a deliberate choice. 

He didn’t want sex with Matty to feel anything like it did with Armie. He kept his eyes open during blow jobs, whether he was giving or receiving, and usually made it a point to avoid getting too caught up in making out because in the dark, it all tastes the same. Timmy is desperate to keep from having to relive the crushing truth that he and Armie are really over.

Matty breathes out an amused huff, tucking in to seal a kiss against Timmy’s lips before twisting around to retrieve a condom and lube from his bag on the floor. “‘Course you can. But be quick about it, yeah?”

Timmy laughs, gripping his dick by its base inside of his sweatpants. He watches Matty tear the wrapper with his teeth, handing it over and shimmying out of his linen bottoms before Timmy’s even made a move. He scoots up so that his head is properly squared on the pillow and drops each long leg outside of Timmy’s hips, his dick bobbing full-blooded against his navel. There is a snail trail of precome mussing the soft line of hair.

He doesn’t appear self-conscious in the least.

“You’re hot,” Timmy points out lamely, the cat-like visage of Matty stretched out for Timmy’s consumption swimming in technicolor. In an alternate universe, Timmy would feel like the luckiest guy in the world, having Matty Healy offering himself over so freely--that is the appropriate response to being gifted such an opportunity. Instead, he is choked by jealousy, assured that Armie’s probably had guys laid out like this for him as well since their fight at Dakota’s. 

Matty tinkles a laugh that is hard-edged with darkness. No, want. Matty_ wants_ him. “You’re a dickhead,” he simpers fondly, pushing at the waistband of Timmy’s sweats with one foot, baring a triangle of lean muscle. “Now get down here.”

Timmy doesn’t know what he’s waiting for and grows overanxious to be inside of Matty once he’s asked for him, ready to have his higher brain functions temporarily silenced by the delicious slide of their bodies. His shirt flies off into the corner and then he’s shirking out of his bottoms and lowering himself over Matty once they’re both fully naked. Timmy can’t help mewling for another kiss, even before his hands coasts along his stomach to play over the slight swell of his ass. 

“Love,” Matty reminds him lightly, wafting a careless hand towards the lubrication. Timmy swipes it and coats his hand generously, too high for precision. The sticky-smooth invasion of his fingers makes both Matty and him groan. One, then two, then Matty is wrenching his preparations away and telling him to _get on with it already,_ managing to sound only half as breathless as he must be.

Fucking Matty is a practice in narcissism. 

They are both thin wrists and dark curls and pale skin and even though it’s wrong and ill-timed, Timmy can’t help wondering if his current view is anything like what Armie saw when they slept together at his apartment. It’s a twisted thought to consider, but as he slowly slides his cock into Matty, Timmy hopes that if he does it _ just right_, maybe he can relive his and Armie’s fuck all those weeks ago. 

Maybe taking Armie’s POV will give him some clarity. 

Or maybe Timmy’s just too fucking high. 

“You’re in your head, mate,” Matty whispers, pushing his heels into Timmy’s ass to urge him forward. Timmy sinks down and they both shudder as he bottoms out, Matty bringing their mouths together. “Be with me. Stay present.” Timmy nods; he always seems to know when he’s thinking of Armie. “I’ve got you.”

When Timmy draws away, Matty’s hazel-brown eyes are all knowing, even as shaded as they are with arousal. He smiles, Matty smiles back, and for a blissful moment, he really does forget about Armie and his baby blues. 

Mostly. 

Timmy starts to move, slow at first, until the gripping heat of being inside Matty quickly transforms desire into necessity. 

“Shit,” Timmy whines, his face screwed up. “Feels good.”

The way Matty makes love is musical. Timmy’s ragged huffs of breath are out of sync compared to the melodic drawl of Matty’s moans, the slap of skin pairing beautifully with the gentle _tap tap tap_ of the headboard against the hotel wall. He’s composing a new song, even now.

Matty also likes to talk, praise, encourage. He guides Timmy during every readjustment, every thrust, letting him know in throaty gasps: _right there, yes, just like that_; Timmy blushes when Matty says his cock _ feels as gorgeous as it looks._

It isn’t like his one time with Armie, their mistake almost unbearably intense, each touch toeing the line of too much and ending with a stinging heartsickness that still hasn’t yet begun to fade. No, with Matty having sex is simple. It sounds, feels, and tastes _good._ His body responds exactly how it’s meant to, and his heart is happy too.

They hump and kiss and whisper and it’s over before too long. A steady incline into orgasm. 

Timmy falls flat against Matty after finishing. He can feel the slick of Matty’s come smearing between their bellies but he doesn’t care. He’s too high and too spent. Everything is warm vibrations. He closes his eyes and rests his face in the slender curve of Matty’s neck, peppering a few kisses against the spiral curls of his hair, against the fuzz behind his ear that shapes his mohawk. His cock throbs as it softens, and with a minute shift, he slips out of Matty. 

“I fancy the shit out of you,” Matty sighs with a lopsided grin. 

The feeling is mutual, but Timmy doesn’t say so, already remembering the fuckload of baggage he comes with. It isn’t fair, that this thing between them has started out with a broken wing.

He stiffens and Matty taps him on the shoulder, squirming underneath his weight. Taking the hint he rolls off, hissing slightly as he snaps the condom from his dick to knot and toss it. Matty chuckles, the sound rough and sweet in the silent aftermath. “I’m knackered. Let’s have a shower then sleep.”

Timmy’s mouth feels dry. He perches up on his elbows and watches Matty climbing out of bed. “You get the hot water started. I saw an ice machine on the way to the room earlier. Gonna go fill the bucket and be right back.”

“Okay,” Matty grins, tipping over for a simple kiss before padding off towards the bathroom, turning around at the door to flash Timmy a cheeky wink before he disappears inside. The shower handle squeaks and the pipes hiss a moment later.

Timmy gets dressed, giving his dick a cursory wipedown with the inside of a spare shirt. The ice bucket is sat next to a plastic bag full of granola bars and road snacks. He grabs it and kicks into his sneakers, not bothering to pull the backs of them up over his heels. It will only be a minute.

A pretty girl in a cropped sweater and jean skirt strides past him as he’s opening the door to their room. She looks rushed and rumpled, anxiously combing down the back of her hair with her fingers.

Timmy wonders idly if she was at the show tonight, wonders what she’d think about the revelation that he just fucked the singer for the 1975. Matty’s probably washing cum off the insides of his thighs right now.

He walks down the hall and to the stairs playing back the greatest hits of what just went down, feeling lighter now that he’s worked through the excitement of the show and sweated out some of the drugs. 

Tomorrow is the last day on tour and then soon it will be Halloween, Timmy’s second favorite holiday. He feels warm about it, buzzed by the knowledge that a good party is fast-approaching. Matty has already shown him what he’s going to wear, and it doesn’t make any sense but it’s hot. Dakota’s promised they can sleepover on the couch. 

It’s going to be good. And eventually, _he’s_ going to be good. The farther Armie is in his rearview mirror, the easier his life is going to get.

Timmy steps down off the last concrete stair and onto the lower level. He’d been staring down on his descent, lost in thought. 

When he finally looks up again, turning into the alcove where he remembers the ice machine being, he nearly drops his bucket, his heart seizing in his chest worse than any time he’s been jumpscared by a horror movie at the theater.

He wants to pretend that it isn’t Armie, even though it’s the same buzzcut and the same neck tattoo and the same black fucking sweater. He wants to look at the guy clearly zipping up in front of the vending machine and ease by without incident, wants to fill his bucket and lope back upstairs to Matty waiting for him in steam under the shower spray. But more than his eyes telling him that this is Armie, his very blood sings its recognition of him.

Timmy freezes, watching the way Armie’s back muscles shift underneath the material of his sweater. He opens his mouth to say something, only he isn’t sure what. Until the glimpse of that girl in the jean skirt flashes in his mind’s eye.

Oh.

He can place the look on her face now as guilty, or ashamed. And Armie isn’t exactly reading the drink menu on the machine.

Matty, the hotel, _everything_ else burns away, charred edges to this moment. Timmy wants to vomit, wants to hit him, wants to cry.

He thinks of turning back, going to the hotel room and making an excuse about the ice machine being broken. Or maybe just telling Matty the truth: _pretty sure I just caught Armie railing some random girl outside._

Instead he freezes like a fucking coward and watches as Armie flattens the crumpled hem of his sweater, trying to sort out the mess he’s made with some basic bitch. Timmy’s eyes follow the movement and all he can think, irrationally, is that Armie is a goddamn traitor. 

He’s doing this on purpose.

“Really?”

**Author's Note:**

> we are ohhyellowbird and cumpeachx on tumblr! come say hi!


End file.
